Chapter 24: Quitting Time

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

                                                and the woman important to each

                                      

                                                                       24

 

     It was quitting time the Friday before the wedding, and Lola McIntyre haunted the Billing Department doorway. “Got any plans for the weekend?” Mimosa Liang, the co-worker with the long black hair, stopped to point a finger. “You’re going to the wedding, you had your hair done and you’ve been telling me all week.” She stalked past. “I can’t wait till it’s over!”

     Lola patted her hair and the charms on her bracelet jingled. “Everybody knows,” she thought and went looking for Mailroom Joe and Stockroom Bob, but their workplaces were empty.  Determined to savor the last hours of anticipation, she journeyed up to Executive Reception and found Betsy Murray who was behind the curved counter at C-suite gathering her belongings.

     “See you at the wedding tomorrow!” Lola chortled.  The petite secretary eyed the gossip warily and opened her purse. “I have an invitation…” She waved an ivory envelope. “I probably won’t go.”

     Rocked back on her heels, Lola reached out. “Let me have it!”  Betsy pulled it back. “Then again, I might. Surely you have one, since you’re going.”

     “I was thinking of a friend.”

     “It’s plus one. You can bring your friend.”

     “I was thinking of another one.”
     “Too bad.” Lola retreated from the know-it-all smile, thinking “Plan B.”

-ii-

     Early the next day, Joe and Bob approached the gates of the Pacific Palisades mansion, where a line of modest cars queued before a uniformed guard. A lingering marine layer kept the gray morning cool before the forecast warm summer day.

     They had awoken no earlier than any other workday and were silent during the hour-long drive. Joe, with white ear buds plugged in beneath stringy black hair, had closed his eyes, while Bob was lively, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of classic rock, his aqua Corolla as neat as his stockroom.

     They passed through the gates, then followed the road to the designated parking lot, catching a glimpse of the peach-colored mansion that glowed like neon under the soft light. Behind a copse of trees adjacent to the tennis courts were the lot and a van waiting to carry them the rest of the way.

      The mansion’s central two-story structure rose like a cresting wave and then descended into single-story wings on either side. Arched double doors between marble columns and beneath a bas-relief frieze depicting leaping dolphins formed the portico, and conveyed a sense of noble completion; which contrasted with the scene on the ocean side: on the green sloping lawn assorted metal rods, tent pegs, rope and white canvas were scattered like an obstacle course. Farthest from the mansion, a ten-foot metal arbor stood like a denuded tree behind a wooden dais that fronted an area where stacks of folding chairs were ready to be deployed. 

     A lean man with leathery skin called them. “Gather round. There’s plenty of work for you all.” Wearing jeans, boots and an untucked shirt that fluttered in the breeze, he surveyed the crew from beneath bushy white eyebrows: men, large and small, in work clothes of various description. He counted off five and pointed to his left. “Over to that tent. Go!” They jogged away to where a supervisor waited. He counted another group and sent them to their work. He was in rhythm, about thirty laborers in, when he reached Joe and Bob. He scrutinized their neat jeans and t-shirts unstained by toil then gestured behind him. “Help set up the chairs, and don’t get hurt.” A chorus of laughter pursued them down the slope.

         

-iii-

     Lola’s jaw dropped when Atom Green strode out of his condo. “You look too good! You’re supposed to look like me.”  She indicated her black pants, and matching long-sleeved shirt and comfortable shoes. “There’s no way you’ll pass. You’d know if you’d been in service.” His lips formed a silent retort.

     “No blazer. No tie. Don’t you have a light jacket to wear, a black one? The slacks are okay, but those shoes. Too expensive! Here, put this on, and wear it low.” He found a suitable jacket in his wardrobe and carried the blazer like a parcel with tie in pocket, but kept the shoes. The ball cap emblazoned with “LA,” fit snuggly over his personality.

     They made it through the mansion gates and boarded the van. No one paid them any mind as their group was shepherded inside through a service entrance. Atom managed to slip away. 

     Lola was satisfied that she’d done her part and now could relish the luxurious setting that had sparkled in her imagination for so long. They stood in a large foyer with a floor-to-ceiling window facing the Pacific. The headman, an Englishman named Gerard, was making assignments and directed her to set up the champagne.

     Unable to contain herself, she ran to the window and saw tents like white mushrooms populating the green lawn. She imagined a big red ball rolling past them and splashing into the blue sea. “Hoy! Set up these tables!” She hustled to her station, the golden charms on her bracelet jingling, then lost herself in the romance of sun-rimmed flutes and sparkly bubbles.

    

              

The next chapter will be posted by September 25..

 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.     

Chapter 20: Lunchtime

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

                                              and the woman important to each 


 

                                                                      20

          Lola McIntyre sat at the usual table, waiting, as others took their spots in the break room to empty paper bags and unseal plastic containers. She had observed the night-before preparation ritual in advance of a long morning commute, but the ham-and-cheese-on-white stayed in her oversized purse despite her growling stomach.

          Once, at the point of reaching in, Bill had stepped inside the door and stood there in the black broad-shouldered tunic that sent a charge through her. He jerked his head and she followed him. Though lunch turned out to be fast food eaten in the limo, it was the most romantic noontime she could remember since high school so, in hope of another lunchtime summons, she waited as long as possible.

          Mailroom Joe dropped a wrinkled brown bag on the table and took a seat. His white ear buds were in place under stringy brown hair that touched his shoulders. Then Stockroom Bob came in, looking neat in checkered short-sleeved shirt that showed off his muscles. A Tupperware man, he placed a rectangular container and two small round ones before him, nudging one into alignment. “Aren’t you eating?” he teased. She nodded, eyes fixed on the door. Then Bill entered.

          “Driving Slade to the Palisades. Not much time.” He pulled an apple from his pocket and bit in. The statement from the tight-lipped chauffeur triggered questions and conversation about the CEO who was going to tour the mansion owned by an ally, where Dave Forester’s wedding would take place the next month. Joe mentioned the fancy hand-lettered envelopes that had passed through the mailroom. Lola averred they were the invitations then expressed excitement over who’d receive them, followed by depression for being excluded. “It’s a big event in the company. It's not right we don’t get to go.” She tossed her head and the charms on her bracelet jingled. The blonde wave plastered to her face did not move.

          “I’m going.” The chauffeur wasn’t the kind of guy to boast of such things. Lola blinked rapidly and began to plead. Joe seemed to wake from a slumber. Even Bob, who liked things in their proper place, displayed a kind of expectation. “You want to go? You have to work.” He looked around the table. They were unanimous. “I’ll tell the caterer.” Lola shouted “Hooray!” to smiles all around.

          Bill headed for the door, and she hurried after to push him into the hallway. She whispered, “I want to tell you: I’ve been to the condo.” She paused for effect but the face beneath the shaved head did not crack. “Helen asked me. It’s lovely! The view! The furniture! You should have taken me. Listen. Let’s go together. What do you say?”

          “She lives there.” Before she could object, he added, “After work she doesn’t go to an apartment or anyplace else. She stays. When she goes out, she comes back. I got to go.” He left her staring with mouth wide open. She had thought to zing him; instead her mind was racing to catch up: Slade buys the condo, transfers Helen. She must be (blank). She dates Atom, then he leaves because (blank). Bill is following so (blank).

          As a storyteller, Lola strived for certain effects but right then wasn’t sure of the gist. Delighted to deliver pithy comments to elicit laughs, her subjects often were the same as on TV comedies. She favored stories that ended happy after frustrated desire. She wasn’t good at drama. With something of graver import, her voice croaked to a halt mid-sentence, forcing her audience to complete the thought so they'd believe she knew more than she was willing to say.

          Her mind drifted. A zero-minute commute, nice! Helen dreaded transferring to the condo, and now lives there. Funny, yes? Wanting to laugh, she felt something crawling up her back. She headed to her workstation. Good stories start as first drafts. She was wont to try hers out on Mimosa Liang, the co-worker in the next cubicle. Her qualifications were that they didn’t share the same friends, she tended to hone in on consequences and had an easy-to-read face.

          Petite with long black hair and dark eyes, Mimosa liked living on the happy side, so seeing Lola approach evoked a frown. As she listened her face expressed a holy sorrow. “The poor wife! At home with the kids, while he spends time with the other woman. That’s humiliating! No wonder we never see her, or else he keeps her away so she doesn’t find out. What would she do? The kids have priority, sure. I didn't think Helen was that way, but he isn’t so sure about her if he’s having her followed. I could see her liking Atom. He must have been a threat. I don’t like this. It’s not pleasant. Somebody’s going to pay. Why are you telling me this?”

          Signaling confidentiality with a finger to the lips, Lola retreated into her own cubicle with a better sense of inevitable crash and injury. She blushed thinking about workplace romances, but was thrilled more than cautioned, certain of being beyond the flack zone where she could watch harm-free.  

 The next chapter will be posted by September 4..

 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.